When The Music Stops
by KNO3
Summary: Things change. Things grow old, things fall apart, things go to rust. No one is safe from Time's slow advance, not even the Batman. Standalone sequel to "A Little Night Music."


Bruce Wayne breathed in a deep sigh and stared out over Gotham City. He had always loved the high windows in the study, with their clear view over the city he had worked so hard to save.

It was nearly a year since Doctors Jonathan Crane and Harleen Quinzel had left the city, fleeing out of Gotham Bay and simply vanishing off the map. Dick had gone a crusade to find them, intimidating thugs all across Gotham City, Bludhaven, and Atlantic City; and, for one chaotic week, had flown out to Crane's rural hometown in southern Georgia to question the locals. No one had heard anything. Oracle had done her part as well, sifting through thousands of credit card receipts, plane tickets, train stubs... For all purposes, Crane and Quinzel had ceased to exist. The thought was strangely terrifying.

Bruce sighed and shifted his weight to his good leg, clutching the polished top of his cane for support. Years of hard landings, constant running, and acrobatic dodging had taken its toll. Black Mask's bullet had merely been the straw that broke the camel's back. Outside, the sun was slipping towards the horizon, silhouetting the cityscape with red and black. Bruce wondered how long it would all last.

Arnold Wesker had been one of the first to go. The ex-mob boss had faded into trembling senility, and Wayne Enterprises reluctantly relegated him back to the halfway house. They said he lived alone, painfully shy and timid, and worked in the garden by himself. Sometimes, two men would come to see him- one, a crumbling giant of a man with faded scars along his left cheek, the other a tall, thin grandfather of three. They would sit with Wesker and talk in low voices, playing poker on the community lawn, and Wesker would nod and smile and move the cards with hands that never seemed to stop shaking. When a black sedan pulled around the corner spraying bullets, Rhino moved fast, tackling Wesker to the ground and shielding him with his body. It wasn't fast enough.

Bruce had attended both their funerals, one of a handful of people who actually knew them. Mugsy and his wife had wept, and a distant relative of Rhino's had shown up in a pinstriped suit and fedora. Wesker's funeral had been even more poorly attended. There were a few fellow residents of the halfway house, the usual sprinkling of sightseers and souvenir seekers, and a blond man in an oversized trenchcoat and top hat who stopped to drop a rose on the grave. Bruce had watched him walk away, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his patched, bottle-green overcoat, and hadn't followed him.

Mary Dahl had been the next. They found her in her apartment, peacefully curled up in a corner, asleep. Later that night, the television airwaves were hijacked- Dick would track down the Riddler and Two-Face as the culprits- and America's Top New Singer was replaced by a marathon of _Love That Baby. _The Joker and Harley Quinn took over a Toys R Us and spent the night playing house in the doll aisle until the police came to take them away.

And then there was Killer Croc. Bruce sighed and glanced to the side. Croc had knocked over a small-time bank and fled to a nearby rock quarry while Dick was following a lead across town and Tim was off with the Justice League. Against Alfred's wishes, Bruce had donned the suit and taken off for the quarry. Croc had roared, whipped his tail, and half-stumbled towards a mining tunnel. He was moving slowly enough that Bruce would have no trouble catching him- or so he thought. Ten minutes later, puffing like a steam engine, he'd caught up with the mutant. They'd traded blows, sparring back and forth in the tunnel. Then the rockslide began. Bruce retreated to the tunnel, but a particularly large slab caught Croc across the chest, pinning him underwater. For all his massive strength, he couldn't move it. Neither could Bruce.

After they'd taken the body to the morgue and Bruce had turned the stolen goods over to Gordon, he'd come home, stripped to the waist, and done push-up after push-up until sharp pains shot up his lower back and Alfred came tottering down the stairs to stop him with fragile, faded hands. Even you, Master Bruce, cannot save everyone, he'd said. Sometimes, we must let go and let time have its way.

Less than a month later, Bruce found himself seated on a hard-backed pew at the chapel, listening to the seventh or eighth eulogy for Alfred Pennyworth, dedicated serviceman and friend of the poor. Alfred had donated to literally hundreds of charities, and- to Bruce's surprise- held a platinum sponsor's position at the Gotham City Museum of Art. Over half the people present were foreigners, flown in from England or farther, who nodded respectfully and touched the brims of their hats as they passed the casket. Alfred Pennyworth, a gentleman and a scholar... Bruce stood by the casket long after the others had left, hands gripping the rail so hard his knuckles turned white. That night, Wayne Manor seemed very still.

Gradually, Bruce became accustomed to the silence.

Within two weeks of Alfred's funeral, Bruce once again found himself paying his respects before an open casket. Grace Lamont, beloved by many, faithful parishioner at Our Lady of Mercy Cathedral and compassionate servant at the related homeless shelter and recovery clinic. She had never married. They let Harvey Two-Face out of Arkham to attend the wake, arms wrapped tightly around his chest in the confining straitjacket and tears streaming down both sides of his face.

On the way back to Arkham, Harvey somehow overpowered both of his orderlies and fled into the night. Dick found him two hours later, seated in the old D.A.'s office with a .22 pistol in his right hand and a bullet hole through his head. The coin still lay on the desk, slowly drowning in a pool of crimson. Good heads. They'd buried him next to Grace in what was very nearly, but not quite, a double funeral.

Poison Ivy had begun to change slowly, gradually, her skin fading to a sickly grey and then to a pale, unearthly green, her hair mixing with ivy leaves and curling tendrils. By the time she took over Gotham Park, she hardly looked human. Dick had swung in to stop her, only to find a green-eyed Bane waiting for him. After the fight, Ivy and Bane had apparently hijacked a transport plane headed for Brazil. Bruce considered going after her, but the flight crew and pilot were discovered unharmed in the airport. He remembered Alfred's advice and watched with an inexplicable tinge of sadness as the plane cleared the runway, soft, green vines twining silently over the wings. Occasionally, he heard the odd report of a slash-and-burn overseer being swallowed by the jungle in the Brazilian rainforests, or a mining operation mysteriously vanishing overnight. They were few and far between.

About the same time, there had been a mysterious rash of mass panics at movie theaters. During certain movies- generally horror or suspense films- the entire audience would suddenly succumb to hysteria and stampede out in terror. Bruce donned the suit once more and easily collared Jonathan Crane, who snarled and spat and threw curses at him all the way back to Arkham Asylum. And for once, he'd stayed put.

He never found out what happened to Catwoman. She'd dropped by Wayne Manor in costume, almost as lithe and graceful as always, and robbed him blind. Dick had showed up, of course, and pursued her the way _he_ used to, chasing her down the high vaulted roof and across the sloping spires of the Manor while Bruce watched from an upper-story window. She'd paused at the very edge of the roof, glanced back with that untameable, inimitable smile and the full moon just over her shoulder, and blown him a kiss before dropping out of sight.

It was the last time he saw her. Six months later, he received a package labeled simply "Bruce." It contained a delicate crystal statue, a young cat in the act of yawning, tail curled peacefully around the clear body and eyes narrowed to sleepy slits in the afternoon sunlight. He placed it on his desk next to Selina's picture and waited for news that never came.

Bruce sighed and turned away from the window. It was days like this that made him feel old, older than he looked. He remembered the day the Riddler had died- the same day he'd received the shot to his leg. Black Mask had turned up at one of his board meeting, murdered half a dozen people, and sent Bruce Wayne reeling back in agony. Black Mask had just chuckled darkly, raised his gun, and Bruce honestly thought that might be the end. But Nigma had rushed in, missing his mask and bowler hat, and attacked the mob boss for no apparent reason. Black Mask ended up in the hospital. Nigma ended up at the morgue. Inside his jacket, they found a notebook filled with scrawled diagrams, nonsense wordplay, unsolvable puzzles- until the last page. BRUCE WAYNE BRUCE WAYNE BRUCE WAYNE BRUCE WAYNE BRUCE-

Bruce Wayne still wondered how much Edward Nigma really knew. Had known.

And then, of course, there was Joker. Dick had been chasing him after he and Harley Quinn commandeered the Old Gotham Opera Hall during a performance of _Pagliacci. _By the end of Act Two, "Canio" had stabbed not only Nedda and Silvio, but half the troupe and three stage hands, and the audience was roaring with painful laughter. Dick had arrived, Joker had predictably thrown Harley Quinn at him and run off, and the Clown Prince of Crime had unintentionally fled straight into Anthony Thorne's latest "business deal." Joker's bullet-riddled body had been recovered the next day, face still stretched into a hideous smile. Harley Quinn had been sent back to Arkham Asylum, and Anthony Thorne had fled Gotham City under a false name.

But Harley Quinn had not come back for revenge. After a brief, two-month stay in Arkham, she had escaped with Jonathan Crane and left Gotham City. Bruce had donned the suit and gone to stop them- had almost stopped them- but Oracle suddenly disappeared from the intercom, and he had found himself fighting an army of ordinary citizens who rushed in to help the escaping Scarecrow. At first, he had been mystified. Then he realized they were all wearing hats. He had been forced to retreat to the rooftops and watch as Crane and Quinn disappeared into Gotham Bay.

It had taken most of the year, but Oracle had finally pinpointed Jervis Tetch's location- an abandoned warehouse five miles out of town. Bruce insisted on going with Dick, riding in the old, long-hooded Batmobile past abandoned housing projects, decayed automobiles scattered here and there, and once-bright houses now inhabited by crack dealers and ladies of the night. To Bruce's chagrin, some of these began walking out of the houses and following the Batmobile. By the time they reached the warehouse, there was a crowd of silent, empty-eyed Gothamites trailing behind them, all wearing a hat of some kind. To say it was creepy would be an understatement.

They'd torn the warehouse apart, watched by the unseeing eyes of the chipped citizens, until Bruce spotted a trapdoor.

There was a small, rotted table set with dust-coated china. The cakes had long ago turned stale and dwindled away into fuzzy white lumps; Bruce tried not to look at them. Instead, he focused his attention on the mass of wires, servers, machine parts he had never seen before- the massive supercomputer filled nearly the entire cavern. Oracle couldn't hack in, but guided them through the steps to finding Jervis Tetch among the machinery.

At the very heart of the computer, wreathed with twining wires and tubes and nearly entirely ensconced in cold metal, the Mad Hatter lay sleeping. He still wore his pale lavender gloves and indigo frock, a curling parchment pinned to the lapel.

IN A WONDERLAND THEY LIE  
>DREAMING AS THE DAYS GO BY<br>DREAMING AS THE SUMMERS DIE

EVER DRIFTING DOWN THE STREAM  
>LINGERING IN THE GOLDEN GLEAM<br>LIFE, WHAT IS IT BUT A DREAM?

Under Oracle's careful instruction, Bruce and Dick had located the outgoing transmitter and shut it down. The Hatter never twitched; his breathing was low and steady, a gentle smile fixed on his lips. Tubes sprouted from his wrists, ran out from dark felt sleeves to meet bundled wires and clock-like machinery grafted into cloth and skin. A solitary security camera craned its neck gently, its single unblinking eye watching the Dynamic Duo steadily.

Bruce and Dick had looked at each other for a long time before leaving, nailing the hatch down behind them.

As the last sliver of crimson sun vanished behind the horizon, Bruce sighed and allowed himself a sad smile. He almost envied Jervis Tetch. What would it be like, to live out a dream life? He'd been more unsettled than impressed during his brief "lifetime" in Tetch's dream machine- but that had been because he was deceived, he was being tricked. A beautiful dream, but not one he could live in.

A lithe dark figure dropped down in the glass reflection, and Bruce shifted slightly.

"Dick."

"Hey." There was a stiff silence. Dick blew out his breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. Look. I'm sorry about dropping by like this. I know it's not what you expected. I just wanted to talk for a few minutes, and then I'll be gone."

Bruce turned slowly, leaning heavily on the cane.

"Tell Oracle I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine."

Dick winced.

"How do you _do _that?"

Bruce didn't answer, just turned and walked to the leather chair, barely leaning on the cane at all.

"Okay, yes, she did. But I would have come anyway. That is to say..." Dick coughed and moved a little closer. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Common courtesy."

"I can handle myself, Dick."

"Yeah, sure you can. You're holed up in here like a rat in a sewer, you haven't bothered to contact me or Oracle since the warehouse incident, and the Batcave hasn't been accessed for three days. If I didn't stop and check on you, the nursing home people would. And it's Nightwing."

"I'm touched."

Dick heaved a long sigh.

"You're not making this easy. C'mon, talk to me. What's on your mind? Afraid Tetch is planning a secret comeback?"

Bruce shook his head. The shadows on the wall were pooling into black shapes and shifting into darkness as the after-sunset glow faded from the sky.

"Jervis Tetch is gone," he said.

"But that is bothering you. Are you jealous?"

Bruce sighed.

"I can't live a lie, Dick. You know that."

"Uh... no comment necessary."

"But maybe I do envy him," Bruce went on, ignoring the comment. "At least his dreams never end." His eyes strayed to the cane. "At least he retired by choice."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. I thought you wanted to hang up the cape."

Bruce's jaw tightened.

"It was necessary," he stated. "A vulnerable Batman would only create strife and mayhem among criminals. Everyone would have wanted to get a shot at me, every mask, every capo. Better to live a legend than die a man. I did what I had to... to keep Gotham safe."

"But you still wanted to keep it up," Dick said.

Bruce shifted slightly.

"It was always my greatest hope," he said. "To remain the watchful protector, the guardian of the dark alleys. To defend the weak and helpless and avenge those beyond help. To bring justice to those beyond the reach of the law. To be Batman, forever; Batman, beyond..."

"Hey, hey, don't talk like that." A gloved hand suddenly rested on Bruce's shoulder. "You've still got me... Bruce."

The old man leaned forward, glanced over his shoulder at the young man leaning over the back of his chair.

"I thought you were staying out of Gotham," he said.

Dick smiled crookedly, eyes glinting bright and blue behind the mask.

"Well, you know," he said, with a shrug, "Things change."

Bruce nodded.

"Yes," he repeated. "Things change..."


End file.
